by Gary Braver
Dana loved her nose.
The ugly bump was gone. She could look aslant and not see the obstruction. Gone also was the sausagey thickness. In its place was a sleek, perfectly sculpted work that harmonized with her other features.
A week had passed since the dressing had come off, yet she’d still sneak up on a mirror, half-expecting to see her old face looking back at her. But it was gone, really gone.
As Aaron Monks had said, it would take another few weeks for final definition to set in, but she looked remarkably different even straight on. The swelling on her upper face had diminished and the purple bruising, though faded, still smudged her face. And even though she could cover that with makeup, she still felt self-conscious about going out into public.
Of course, Aaron understood and told her not to worry. In the meantime, he said they should formally celebrate and suggested Independence Day, which had a nice symbolic touch.
She agreed.
69
“It’s your princely taste that saved your ass.”
Captain Charles Reardon stood behind his desk, peering down at Steve like a face hewn from Mount Rushmore.
“Your bottle of Veuve Clicquot had the distributor’s own product label, which was traceable to Central Street Liquors. We also got this,” he said, and handed him a sheet of paper.
It was a grainy black-and-white blowup of a security camera shot of him at a counter with a bottle of champagne, the Clicquot label clearly visible.
“What about the Taittinger?”
“No luck there because there wasn’t any retailer stamp. But the UPC price is thirty-four ninety-nine, nothing on your credit card records.”
“You mean you checked.”
“Your sweet ass we did.” Reardon smiled. “And next to you the killer’s a cheapskate.”
Steve felt as if he’d been flushed with fresh water. Reardon was pronouncing him an innocent man. Yet he could almost smell the fumes of overheating rise from him. Reardon had not summoned him to celebrate his exoneration.
“That’s the good news.” Reardon glanced at the paper in his hand. “The bad news is that someone else saw you trying to park your car in a resident slot near your place on St. Botolph a little before eight P.M., an hour before the estimated time of death of Terry Farina. She remembered because she claimed it took you a half-dozen tries to get the car in the spot which, she says, could have taken an eighteen-wheeler. When you were finished, the car was at a tipsy angle and you stumbled into your apartment.”
Steve remembered none of that.
“In short, you were fucking blotto.”
“I had a beer and two scotches. What she saw was the medication on top of that.”
“You said you were off the booze.”
“I said I was working on it. Still am.”
Reardon looked at him with that flat stone face. “Well, while you’re working on it you better work on reviewing the policies and procedures of this department, Lieutenant, because you withheld vital information regarding the victim. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but you’re the second cop who’s diddled the truth on this case.”
“The truth is that I didn’t know if what I withheld was information real or imagined.”
“How could you not remember having drinks with the vic two hours before she’s killed?”
“I did, but nothing after that because the meds reacted adversely with the alcohol. I had a memory lapse. Until I could verify my whereabouts, I saw no point in reporting what might or might not have happened.”
“You had receipts from the bar and the liquor store. You were with her.”
To try to justify his inaction would only make his case worse, so he simply nodded.
“I can bust you back to foot officer for this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reardon glared at him for another long moment then handed him an envelope. Steve did not have to open it. He knew it contained a formal letter of reprimand. “Am I off the case, sir?”
“No, and only because Sergeants Dacey and Hogan went to bat for you. Said you were cooperative in alleviating their suspicions, blah, blah, blah. You owe them thanks big-time.”
“Right.”
“Here’s the other reason you’re not chasing speeders.” He handed him a sheet of paper with the letterhead of the New Hampshire State Crime Lab.
“What’s this?”
“They went back to the evidence box and did an analysis of the stocking in the Corrine Novak case. The results show the patented nylon combination that’s unique to Wolfords.”
70
“Either female autoasphyxia is on the rise or someone’s made the rounds,” Steve said.
An emergency meeting the next afternoon was called with Captain Reardon and Detectives Vaughn, Dacey, and Hogan, as well as the assistant D.A. and two other detectives who had been assigned to the case after Neil French was taken off. In a few days, the unit would be swelled by investigators from different departments as well as reps from the Massachusetts and New Hampshire State Police and attorney general’s office, possibly full of jurisdictional contention now that the investigation had crossed state lines.
Because most homicide investigations were local, police did not regard a yet unsolved murder as the work of a serial killer. But with the stocking identification in the Cobbsville death, Steve went into the database of ViCAP—Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—and found two other cases of females found strangled to death with black stockings.
Each case was officially listed as accidental. On his request, the respective departments had sent records via fax and e-mail. Duplicates had been distributed around the table and at Reardon’s request Steve presented a PowerPoint review of what they had so far.
On the projection screen Steve had displayed victims’ photos, their personal data, pin-mapped locales, some forensic data, and what so far they had determined as common MOs.
“Six years ago, Jillian Stubbs, a fashion model, age thirty-six, was found hanging naked from her bedpost by a single black stocking in her Worcester apartment,” Steve said. “Again, no signs of an intruder nor forensic evidence of foul play nor traces of alcohol or drugs in the woman’s system. She was single, living alone, and had no steady boyfriend. Her death had been ruled an accidental suicide. The M.E.’s autopsy reported that she had dyed red hair.
“Five years ago, Marla Murphy, a thirty-nine-year-old white female and former television reporter for a Washington NBC affiliate, was found hanging naked from a single black stocking in the shower of her beach house in Wellfleet on Cape Cod. She was gay and living alone. Her death had been ruled an accidental suicide. She had naturally auburn hair.”
On the screen was a spreadsheet comparing the women, their physical and vital statistics, and the similarities of their killings.
“Each was a single female between the age of thirty-six and forty-two. They were similar in body size, in appearance, and they all had red hair of varying shades, one natural, three dyed. Each lived alone—two were single, one divorced, the other gay. They were found dead in their homes, strangled with a black stocking—three so far identified as Wolfords.”
“Got to be the same perp,” Hogan said.
“Looks it,” Steve said. “But if it is the work of a single killer, we’re going to have to determine what it was about these women that brought the killer to them.”
That meant examining their private, social, and professional lives for commonalties as well as geographical overlaps just in case there were particular venues where the women had lived or visited that could reveal the killer’s topography.
“It says here that Jillian Stubbs was left-handed, like Terry Farina,” Hogan said.
“Yeah, again making it likely the suicide was staged.”
“According to crime scene photos,” Dacey said, “three of the four victims had beds with headboards. For some reason he shifted his MO from the bed to shower to closet and back to bed.”
“Since Farina�
�s the latest, maybe that’s his preferred killing venue.”
“Could be he changed to cover the pattern.”
Steve nodded and continued. “On the surface we’ve got a wide spread of professional backgrounds. Murphy was a former reporter, Novak a buyer for Ann Taylor, Stubbs a fashion model, and Terry Farina a personal trainer and part-time exotic dancer. But a common theme to each vic’s employment is female appearance.”
“What do you make of that?” Reardon asked.
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think it may hold a key to how the killer was drawn to them—how he may have even stalked them. It’s something to work on.”
“Given they all had red hair,” Vaughn said, “maybe we should put out an APB at the Irish-American clubs.”
That released some chuckles from the table. Given the mounting tension, had Vaughn told a moron joke he would have gotten laughs.
“What bothers me,” Steve said, “is that he might still be hunting.”
71
July 1.
The desk calendar hung right next to the photo of Dana.
July 1.
Twelve years ago today they walked down the aisle at the Unitarian church in Arlington center followed by a reception at Habitat on Belmont Hill. It was a glorious day and a glorious wedding, and they danced their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Markarian to “As Time Goes By.”
Well, time went by, more than a decade, and according to national statistics they were supposed to be living in their happy suburban Carleton home with two point something kids and entering middle age with grace and contentment. Instead, Dana lived by herself in their happy suburban home with her new face and new prospects while Steve bumped around a monastic four-room flat with zero point zero kids and not much else.
The good news—and the only good news—was that nearly three weeks had passed since he had last consumed alcohol. It was the one thing that kept him going because he tied that to the belief that if he conquered this demon, he might win back Dana.
“Hey.”
Steve turned and his heart gave a kick. Neil was standing behind him.
“I’m on my way out, but I want to let you know I got your messages.”
His face was an implacable pink blank. The slender end of a toothpick stuck out of the corner of his mouth. It had been a week since the break-in, and Neil seemed more drawn and his eyes slightly muddy, as if he had not gotten much sleep.
Steve stood up. “What can I say? I’m sorry.” Steve held out his hand, uncertain if Neil would take it or spit at it. And for a moment that seemed to last a week, his hand posed in the air while Neil moved his eyes from Steve’s to his hand. Then he took it.
“You did what you had to do.”
“It was nice of you not to blow my head off.”
Neil nodded. “Until Dacey showed, I was convinced you were there to make a plant.”
“We’re even.”
Neil had not filed a complaint for their unwarranted creeping, and Steve did not file a report that Neil pulled his weapon on a superior officer. Neither would have accomplished anything but a lot of administrative wrangling and lost time on their cases.
“How’s the Farina thing going?”
“It’s going.”
Even though Neil had been cleared, Steve did not want to compromise the integrity of the investigation even within the department. Also, over the last several days, Steve had, in total confidentiality, contacted Neil’s superior at the Gloucester P.D. to determine if Neil had an alibi for the other cases. Luckily, as it turned out, during the estimated time window of Corrine Novak’s murder, he was on duty with other police officers investigating the vandalizing of a local high school by some townie kids. And on the evening when Marla Murphy was killed in Wellfleet, Neil was at a conference in St. Louis. His whereabouts on the other two cases could not be pinpointed, but Steve was satisfied that Neil had nothing to do with the murders.
“I guess it’s not official, but I hear it’s gone serial.”
So much for tight lips. Admitting what they both knew might convince Neil that Steve’s suspicion was dead. It would also serve as a gesture to make up. “Yeah. Got four so far.”
“Any suspects?”
Steve shook his head.
“Establish a motive?”
“Nothing yet.”
Neil shook his head. “So, what have you been doing?”
“Diddling with the files and hoping we get him before he gets the next one.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Yeah.”
Neil made a move to leave. “How are things with Dana?”
“The same. How about Lily?”
“She’s making progress.”
“Good to hear that.”
Neil put out his hand and Steve took it. “l wish I could make it up to you.”
“You can,” Neil said. “You get the son of a bitch, let me have five minutes with him.”
“You’re on.”
72
It was a beautiful July Fourth day—clear, dry, and mild: perfect weather to celebrate Independence Day and to watch the fireworks later that evening.
Dana was ready and waiting at four. But instead of the black BMW pulling up her driveway, a shiny limousine appeared with a uniformed driver and nobody else. He introduced himself as Max and said that Dr. Monks apologized for not coming by in person, but that he would drive her to their rendezvous. He walked her to the limo, where he retrieved a cell phone and handed it to her.
“Dana, it’s Aaron. I apologize, but I got held up in town. Max will bring you here.”
“Okay. And where exactly is here?”
“You’ll see, and bring an appetite.”
She handed Max the cell phone. “He wouldn’t say where we’re going.”
Max smiled. “I think you’ll be pleased.” And he let her in the car.
The interior had a plastic partition dividing the front and rear seats to ensure privacy. As they pulled away, the driver clicked on some classical music and Dana settled back, thinking how her life had suddenly taken on some adventure.
They headed onto the Mystic Valley Parkway, which took them to 93 South toward Boston. Because the air was dry, the city skyline stood out in stereoscopic clarity. Her guess was they were meeting at one of the trendy new places in the South End. But instead of taking the Storrow Drive exit, the driver went straight over the Zakim Bridge and into the tunnel and then took one of the exits that brought them onto Atlantic Avenue.
After a few minutes, they turned into Waterboat Marina near the New England Aquarium. In the distance she spotted Anthony’s Pier 4, where she and Steve had gone in the early years of their marriage and where they always got a window seat because Steve was a cop.
Max drove until he could go no farther. At the gate was Aaron Monks, dressed in a navy double-breasted sport coat with a white shirt and light gray pants. He smiled broadly as he watched Dana get out. Max flashed her a two-fingered salute and drove away.
“You look gorgeous,” he said. Then he snapped on his reading glasses and put his fingers to her chin, turning her face to study it in the sunlight. “Perfect,” and he gave her a kiss on each cheek.
“Thank you,” she said.
His eyes lit up as he regarded her. “And you’re pleased with the results?”
“Of course. But why all the mystery?”
He took her arm. “Actually, no mystery. I was running late and thought it best to send a car.” He opened the gate and led her down the ramp to the walkway that took them past dozens of beautiful boats and to the end where a huge white yacht sat that must have been sixty feet long with a high flying bridge surmounted by radar antennae and other electronic fixtures.
“Is Donald Trump in town?”
“Donald Trump?”
He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke, and she felt herself flush. “You mean, this is yours?”
“When I get the chance.”
He took her hand and led her up the ga
ngplank to the deck. “Welcome aboard the Fair Lady.”
The wide aft deck opened into an elegant main salon done in cherry with built-in beige leather sofas and chrome appointments. Next to a dinette area rose a cherry-and-chrome spiral staircase to the flying bridge. The main salon connected to four elegant staterooms plus crew quarters, also in cherry with plush beige carpeting and colorful accents. The cherry continued into the galley, a bright space with black marble counters and stainless-steel appliances.
“It looks like a Ritz Hotel suite on water.” She had to wonder about all the nose jobs it took.
“Thank you. When I can get away, it’s a lot of fun.”
He led her through the salons and into the steering station in the forward deck where two men were checking a nautical chart. “This is Cho and Pierre. They’ll be at the helm this evening.”
She shook their hands. Both men had coffee-colored skin and looked Polynesian and spoke with an accent that she could not place. Later Aaron would tell her that both men had Asian and Caribbean blood and were from the West Indies. They were resident surgeons in a fellowship training program allied with the Institute of Reconstructive Surgery that Aaron headed up. They would be accompanying him on his vacation to Martinique next month.
They returned to the aft deck where a table was set for two and a Boston caterer had laid out trays of shrimp, chicken cordon bleu, meat turnovers, cheeses, and fruit. There were also two fluted glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.
The night was warm with a gentle breeze off the water. They sat across from each other at the elegantly set table. In the thickening golden light of the sun, Aaron Monks looked elegant in his blue and white.
Cho and Pierre pulled the boat into the harbor.
“How long will it take to reach Martinique?”
“We’ll do it in about ten days. We could do it faster, but there’s no rush.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“Even more so when we’re down there. Have you been to Martinique?”
